Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. All that she had ever loved were gone, except Sebastian. She looked at him gravely and squinted. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. ” The hand lingered too long. This is no place for me. I must go and dress at once. She looked in the rear-view mirror.
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